PJO fanfic readers, here is a question for you.
This is my newest fanfic idea that has been living in my head rent-free. Basically a combination of this post and me giving the minor gods the love they deserve.
The Olympians have always had their heroes. It used to be Hercules and Theseus. Achilles and Patroclus. Aeneas and Odysseus. Romulus and Remus. In the 21st century, it happened to be Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase.
But the minor gods… The minor gods never had anyone until Viola Summercket.
(Alternatively: A daughter of Athena with a knack for defying expectations baffles the minor deities into semi-adopting her)
This is happening. But I am stuck on the form and I need your help.
Option one is twelve short chapters (4000-5000 words) from a different minor deity's pov.
Option two is a series of snapshots all bound together in the same 20k fic exploring the relationships and dynamics between the minor gods and Viola, my OC.
Thoughts, ideas and suggestions welcome!
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Since folks liked my response to the writing prompt dealing with ancient Greek mythology, I’ve decided to indulge an idea of mine: a rewrite of the myth of Aphrodite and Hephaestus’ marriage, as well as its outcome. Enjoy!
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Shattering Ivory Keys, Pt. One
Hephaestus lies awake at night, thinking about the throne holding his mother captive. He thinks about the demand he made of the other gods before leaving: “Unless I receive the hand of Lady Aphrodite in marriage, Lady Hera stays in this chair.”
It was a rash thing to say. The whole plan was rash, if he is honest with himself. He isn’t sure if he wants to be honest with himself. Being honest means admitting the other gods would never fulfill his request. Being honest means admitting he made an impossible request on purpose — that he looked at the bruises blooming on his mother’s arms and thought, Good.
Hephaestus opens his bedroom door in the morning with bags under his eyes. He leans on his cane, his leg braces creaking beneath him as he shuffles into the hall. It takes a moment for his bleary mind to register someone else is there.
Hermes hovers a foot off the ground in his fluttering sandals. “We accept your offer,” he says.
Hephaestus stumbles into a chariot several minutes later, his pulse a drumbeat in his skull. Hermes has to pull the reins because Hephaestus doesn’t think this is real, doesn’t understand how this happened, doesn’t know how to keep the bile from creeping up his throat—
And then he is there. He is standing in Olympus again, his hammer in his right hand and his cane in his left hand. His swing is steady and sure. The chains around his mother shatter, splintering on the floor in fine metal shards. The chains around Aphrodite latch with a sharp click.
He knows Aphrodite hears the click too. She has to hear it. She has to see Zeus smiling over the proceedings, his teeth jagged keys out of reach in his velvet gums.
The wedding is the very next day. Hephaestus watches Aphrodite walk down the aisle, her long curls of black hair brushing against the marble floors. She is a plump goddess, the soft curve of her stomach draped by a silvery dress that shimmers against her copper skin. Brown eyes flecked with gold peer through her sheer veil.
They never dart his way. He can’t find it in himself to meet them.
Zeus stands at the altar, joining Hera as she proclaims the marriage rites. He claps his hands when it’s all over. Ozone crackles in the air, searing the burnt smell of magic into Hephaestus’ nostrils. “This marriage is now recognized by myself, binding until the end of time.”
Hephaestus sprawls on a cot in his forge that night, sweating despite the unlit furnaces. He hopes Aphrodite is comfortable in his bed, unafraid of him insisting on certain rites.
There are many more silent days. Hephaestus sees only glimpses of black hair around corners, smelling the faint aroma of roses. He keeps his eyes low. He hesitates, hovering his hand over doorknobs before pulling it away. A bundle of thistles prickle in his chest.
Hephaestus sees Aphrodite’s attendants cluster around her wherever she goes. One of them lingers, planting her hands on her hips. She is a lean, muscular woman with warm brown skin. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she says. Her braids of black hair sway as she turns on her heel and strides off, Hephaestus’ words dead and lumped together in his throat.
A week after the wedding, he sighs. He snatches a stylus from a cup on his workbench, hunching over a clay tablet. He carves script into its yielding surface.
The door to his forge flies open. Hephaestus whips his head around as Aphrodite says, “We need to talk.” She stands in the doorway, her hands balled into fists.
Hephaestus swallows hard. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
She opens, then closes her mouth. She blinks at him.
He tosses the clay tablet onto his workbench. “It was wrong. All of it. I — I never thought they’d actually accept. I didn’t want them to accept.”
“Oh,” she says after a pause. “You wanted Hera…”
“Yes.” Hephaestus’ grip tightens around his cane. “But I should’ve thought about it. Should’ve realized there’d be a chance they’d say yes. Should’ve thought about you.” He glances away, shifting his weight. “So I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Then, Aphrodite unclenches her hands. “I believe you. I don’t forgive you, but I believe you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“I didn’t. I want to fix this, Lady Aphrodite.” Hephaestus runs his thumb over the iron handle of his cane. “It’s not like my creations, though. Those aren’t given Lord Zeus’ binding seal.”
“They aren’t.”
“So I’ll ask you this instead: what do you need? What can I do — or what shouldn’t I do —for you?”
“You mean, what’s my boundaries?”
He flushes. “Sorry. Could’ve phrased that better.”
“It’s fine.”
Hephaestus knows it’s not fine. It can’t be fine. But he sees her shoulders relax from their tense line, her brow smoothing out. So he can hope for a future where somehow, someday, it will be fine.
“Alright,” Aphrodite says. “I don’t want to be touched anywhere. I want to keep sleeping in separate rooms. I want…” She folds her arms. After a beat, she says, “I want to keep seeing people. To keep seeing Ares.”
Hephaestus’ eyebrows shoot up. “Ares?”
“I love him,” she says, lifting her chin. She pulls her shoulders back, uncrossing her legs to widen her stance. “I—”
“No, no. You don’t have to justify yourself,” Hephaestus blurts, waving his hand. “Keep seeing him. Do what you want. It’s not my place to stop you.”
“…you’re sure? You’re my husband.”
“I don’t think either of us wants our relationship to be like that. And I don’t want to control you. I’ve messed with your life more than enough already.”
Aphrodite looks at him, then sighs, slumping a little. “Alright. Alright. That’s good.” She frowns. “You sounded surprised.”
Hephaestus coughs, rubbing his arm. “Ah, well. I guess. I just didn’t think of Ares as — um—”
To his surprise, Aphrodite laughs. It’s light and tinkling, the chiming of tiny bells stirred by the breeze. “I get that a lot.”
“I don’t mean any offense. I’m sorry.”
“None taken. He didn’t think he was that type either. But we both wanted to give it a try.” A faint smile spreads across her face, her gaze going distant. “It was worth it.”
Before Hephaestus can say anything else, a head pokes through the doorway. It’s the attendant who told him off earlier. She glances between them, her brow furrowing. “Is everything alright, Lady Aphrodite?”
Aphrodite shakes herself back to the present. She brushes her hair over her shoulder, still smiling. “Yes, Aglaia. Lord Hephaestus has apologized and promised not to interfere any further in my life.”
“I swear it on the River Styx,” Hephaestus says.
Aphrodite and Aglaia both whirl around, startled. Hephaestus himself feels startled. But he said those words out loud. He said them and he doesn’t want to take them back. So he rolls his shoulders, thumping his cane on the floor. “I swear on the River Styx to let Lady Aphrodite live her own life. I swear to do everything in my power to do right by her — to help fix this whole mess until both of us are happy again.”
A long, tense silence ensues. Aphrodite stares at him. Aglaia steps into the forge, her hands fisted in the skirt of her dress.
“I had to say it,” Hephaestus says, his voice soft. “I have to make it right.”
Aphrodite walks towards him. “You’ve already started it.” She holds out a hand, turning her full, rounded face up towards his. “And we can do it together.”
Hephaestus looks at her outstretched hand. He looks at her. At her nod, he takes her hand in his. “Alright. Together, then.”
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